


Bitten Lips

by fabula_prima



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Captain Alfie Solomons, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, F/M, Friendship/Love, Jealousy, Lost Love, Love Confessions, Male-Female Friendship, Mutual Pining, Teenagers, Unrequited Love, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22775893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabula_prima/pseuds/fabula_prima
Summary: You and Alfie were the best of friends as kids. And you were the dumbest of teenagers. But after the War, and a marriage, and the winning of all Camden Town, perhaps you'll get a second chance.
Relationships: Alfie Solomons/Original Female Character(s), Alfie Solomons/Reader, Alfie Solomons/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 113





	Bitten Lips

**Author's Note:**

> Serially posted on Tumblr, collected here as a (lengthy) one-shot.
> 
> Art by: [iseasilyamused](https://iseasilyamused.tumblr.com/post/190875118516/he-says-goodbye-a-full-and-heavy-goodbye-and) on Tumblr

You were his very best friend growing up. Meeting on the shared playground between your respective primary schools wasn’t an unusual way to start a friendship. But kicking a boy in the side of head to save your not-yet-friend from a schoolyard beating probably was.

Five- or six-years-old was still young enough for neither of you to enact that silly learned shame of a girl defending a boy from a bully. Instead, it forged camaraderie between two scrubby outcasts. And when you were sent to the corner for bad behavior, it taught you that comfort could exist in the shape of Alfie Solomons’ hand on your shoulder.

For all their rapid fire curiosity, children tend to obsess—such was the nature of your fast friendship. School and sleep were mere interruptions to the important matter of life: playing in the rich world of your bizarre little imaginations.

“You can’t touch a dead bird!” you scold him one day when he bends to pick it up off the sidewalk. “Granda says it fills with faeries and then you’re IN for it.”

Alfie had met your grandfather before and secretly thought he was mad in the head. But better safe than sorry with faeries. “Just a feather’s alright. So we’ll not have any bad omens.”

He plucks one from its tail, the iridescent purple and blue flashing like magic against the black of it. You ask him what an omen is, and he says, very smartly, “like a dream or a sneeze or any shivery feeling, really.”

He lets you keep the feather. Tells you he’s got lots of talismans to keep him safe, that they’re in box under his bed. But you never see it. He plays at your house often, but you never visit his, and you never see the box of treasures. You ask him if it’s nice, having both a mum and a da, and he says he’d rather be like you, with just the one. “Mums yell, but I don’t think they hit.” You agree with him—no hitting as far as you know—and count yourself lucky. “But he’s not around much, just his hat on the peg.”

…

Time passes steadily. His father disappears and Alfie seems glad for it, but probably a little sad, too. You both grow up a bit, arms and legs stretching like taffy and covered in clumsy bruises. You each make other friends, and his mock him for spending so much time with a girl. But he bloodies a nose and earns his reputation defending your honor. You’re old enough now to know violence isn’t ladylike, but you’re secretly quite thrilled that he threw the punch.

You spend less time playing, but more time talking because adolescence is an embarrassing nightmare, and it seems like there’s some fresh new torture in store each day. You still pass most evenings piled on your bed, free from shame with one another because it’s _Al_ , and it’s _you_ , and neither of you count as the rest of the awful world.

You flick aimlessly through a schoolbook. “Josephine brought lipstick back from her holiday in Paris, so now everyone _else_ wants to wear lipstick, but I think it’s just silly, it’ll get all over my face!”

You’re not sure he’s heard you at all because he launches right into his own worries. “Right, well, Jimmy Zara’s got hair under his armpits, so he says he’s a man now, and he’s bein’ a right prick about it.”

You contemplate the idea, unused as you are to even considering an armpit. “Do you have hair there?”

“No.” There’s petulance in his voice as he picks at a scab on his knee.

You can tell he’s disappointed. And though you’re not sure why, you think it best to encourage him. “Good. I don’t think I’d like it if you were a man.”

He scowls, but then a smile cracks through as he nudges your shoulder with his own. You don’t have any words to talk about a beautiful face yet, but can feel that his is lovely, even when he wrinkles his nose. “You’d look like a clown with lipstick.”

_You’re wearing lipstick now, and you press your mouth tight together at the memory, standing in front of an office door with_ Solomons _writ across it in gold lettering, “please don’t let him think I look like a clown.”_

* * *

“I wasn’t _nervous_.”

He comes barreling into your bedroom, hands dug into his pockets, face red as a beet, rambling about kissing Edie Powell. And when you dare ask if he was nervous, he snaps back at you like a viper. It’s all you can do not to shove him out of your room because for some reason, you feel like you’re going to be sick all over your freshly washed sheets.

“Well you’re nervous now.” Since you have no interest in parsing out why you’re seething with rage at the thought of him kissing Edie, you disguise your anger with that motherly tone he likes to tease you about. You expect more clipped venom from him, but instead, he softens and sits next to you on the bed.

“Yeah, ‘cause I mighta done it wrong.” He pauses and pulls clenched fists from his pockets. “Dinnit know what to do with my _fucking_ hands.”

He’s started swearing in the last few months, and the habit’s already stuck. As a supposed young “lady,” you think you ought to act offended. But it suits him. It makes him sound less angry, somehow. Like he packages up all that teenaged angst in the punchy syllables and gets it out of his system. He seems ready to talk through whatever happened, but you’re not sure that you are. “You’re acting like it was your first kiss.”

He rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. “First _proper_ kiss.”

“Proper?”

“You know…” one of his eyebrows arches. “…you _know_.”

You shrug your shoulders, even though you _do_ know. But you don’t want to think about it with Edie in mind.

He stares at you like you’re daft, and you’d be offended if it weren’t kind of endearing. “Oh come on…you…open your mouth.”

You stare at his mouth and imagine it open. Against yours. Which is also open. A little thrill fizzes through you and you shake your head.

“I’m sure it was fine, Al.”

“Yeah, well, maybe fine’s not good enough.”

_Fine never had been good enough. It’s why he made Captain so quick, why he was the King of Camden Town, king twice over if his tattooed hands had anything to say about it. ‘Cause let’s be honest: if you’re going to break a holy law, best do it in excess. So two crowns, one near the webbing of each thumb and forefinger–right where the world can see, y’know, as he drags it to him. As he kneads dough, and lifts jewels to the light, and wields that mighty pen of his to scribble out all the prophecies that keep London in his grasp._

_The crown on his right hand suspends upside down a few inches from his mouth when he scrubs thoughtfully at his beard. And when there’s a knock at his door, it drops in defeat._

_“Busy, fuck off.”  
_

_He awaits Ollie’s soft-spoken insistence, nearly impossible to hear from the other side of the thick wood. But something high and bright cuts through instead._

_“Is there a better time? Someone I can schedule with?”  
_

_It’s a familiar voice, but muffled. He’s on his feet before he can figure out why it feels like he’s being haunted. Then’s he’s gripping the knob and turning it and swinging the door open wide and seeing_ you _. Seeing you for the first time in nearly fifteen years and forgetting how to breathe and not knowing what the_ fuck _to do with his hands._

* * *

You’re eighteen and it’s the finest night of your life. School’s ending and the celebration for it takes the shape of a lavish ball—lavish by your standards, anyway. And tonight, you’re on the arm of a perfectly nice boy who wears a perfectly nice suit. He has kind eyes, even if they are a bit empty. But he tends to you with courtesy and offers his jacket in advance, if you start to feel cold.

He’s outside of your usual circle of acquaintances, difficult to define as it is. You still count Alfie as your dearest friend, but he’s pulled away lately. Struggles to meet your eye, keeps conversations clipped. And yet he comes running at any call for aid…like that night you had a bit much to drink at Peggy’s birthday party and he carried you home, safe and warm. But unless you’re in some kind of trouble, Alfie’s friendship is distant. It was inevitable, you suppose—growing apart. It breaks your heart all the same.

The party is lovely, if a little too noisy for your taste. Your date leans in to say something over the din of the ballroom and your gaze wanders, only to land upon Alfie, staring daggers. It’s a look you’ve not seen directed at you before—sharp, heated, _pissy_. It startles the breath from you and you hate him for it. But it thrills you down to your depths.

You stop paying attention to whatever his name is and keep scanning the room for Alfie. You meet his eyes over and over again. He’s all flared nostrils and clenched jaw and you’d like to know what his _fucking_ problem is. You’d like to rush up to him and yell at him and have him grab you into his arms and kiss you in front of the whole party, is what you’d like. But you’re here with the perfectly nice boy, so you shake your head clear of such ridiculous notions and carry on as best you can.

Until Frank, his name is _Frank_ …see, you’ve remembered. Frank takes you kindly by the arm to the corner of the room and tells you gently but directly that he ought to go before he feels like more of a fool than he already does. Because truth be told, everyone knows you’re Alfie Solomons’ girl and everyone knows what Alfie Solomons is capable of. But if you were going to the party alone, he figured it must all be rumor and it was worth a shot to try, but you’ve not been able to keep your eyes off Solomons and it’s quite clear that he can’t keep his eyes off you and he’d really rather not have his nose caved in. He kisses your hand sweetly and makes a hasty exit. You’re left alone and embarrassed.

You stomp on clacking heels to the outskirts of the crowd where Alfie stands petulantly, hands in his pockets.

You shove a painted fingernail into his chest. “Alfred Solomons, you _arse_!” He has the decency to look the slightest bit contrite, but doesn’t say anything. “He was a perfectly nice boy, Alfie, and you scared him off!”

He pulls one hand from his pocket to make a dismissive gesture and purses his lips briefly around a toothpick before removing it. “If I did anything–and I ain’t sayin’ I did, right–it was savin’ you from a night of dull conversation where he congratulates himself over and over for scoring the attention of the prettiest girl at the ball–”

“You can’t always be doing this! You run ‘round town kissing every girl that’ll sit still long enough for it, and I don’t say a word. But I can’t even have one pleasant date? Fuck’s sake, Alfie.”

He stares at his shoes, feeling his heart sink ‘cause he’d done something nerve-wracking with the “prettiest girl” comment, and you’d dismissed it outright. He sniffs harshly to disguise his snarl. “He weren’t good enough for you.”

Your shoulders slump–exhausted, enraged, sad. “That’s not your decision to make.”

He meets your eyes but doesn’t say a word. Just flares his nostrils and chews at his toothpick. You turn to leave and he grabs you by the arm, but you pull back right away. “Let me go, Al.”

It’s like a dagger in the heart, hearing you say that. It’s the last thing he’d ever want to do. But he does as you wish and watches you walk away—prettiest girl at the ball.

You don’t see him for weeks. You hear that he got himself into a bit of trouble, and rather than rot away in a cell, he joins the army. The thought makes you queasy, you grieve for the boy that had been your best friend. But then he sends you a note that tells you where to meet him, ‘cause he’d feel like a lout if he left without saying goodbye. Your knees wobble the whole way there, fending off nerves that make no real sense–it’s just your Al. And he’s just going away for a bit of training. He’ll be back to visit, surely. But when you see him from a distance, your stomach takes flight and you admit to yourself the source of those nerves–he’s finally gonna do it. He’s gonna kiss you and tell you he loves you and that he’ll come back to you. But after the fight at the party, and the way he handled it, he knows he’s no good for you. So he hugs you tight as you fend off tears and tells you not to worry. He kisses your forehead with those soft lips—a friendly gesture—and you crumble inside. It’s so sweet and steals your breath, but it’s not nearly enough. He says goodbye, a full and heavy goodbye, and walks away with his hands in his pockets. You watch until you can’t see him anymore. And you watch long after he’s gone, stunned by the mistake you already know you’ve made.

It’s the last time you see one another until he’s swinging his office door wide open and staring at you, slack-jawed.

_“Hello, Al.”_

* * *

“Is this a bad time?”

He’s frozen for a beat, then comes back to himself with a dazed blink. “Not for an old friend.”

You fight with your instinct to wrap him in a tight hug–it’s what you would’ve done twenty years ago. But time has passed and he’s different now. Not actually any taller, though his presence is far larger than that of the scrawny lad you remember. He has tattoos on his hands and rings on his fingers–all new to you. And when you look up at his face, your heart breaks to recognize all of the lost time. It’s Alfie Solomons, clear as day, but just this side of unfamiliar. There’s a scar along his jaw, wrinkles across his forehead and a patch of grey in his beard. _A beard_. A bright little laugh escapes you. “My God, Al, you’ve a beard.”

Still standing in the doorway, his mouth falls open and he lifts his hand to the hair in question. “Right, well–”

You raise your own hand to cover your mouth–whether to stifle tears or laughter, you’re not sure. “You never could grow one, but now _look_ at you. A proper beard and mustache.”

You meet his eyes–little lines raying from the corners, but soft and bright as always. _There he is._ Then you see them flicker into a squint and his tone settles into something robust. “Always fuckin’ teasing me for that, weren’t you? Haven’t changed a mite.”

All it takes is a smirk at the corner of his mouth and a relieved sob jumps from your throat. You fling your arms around his neck, and in that action, he notices a thousand tiny things all at once. Your perfume, your lipstick, the tears shining in the corners of your eyes, the gold wedding band on your finger. Easy as that, his heart fucking stops. If he ever needed confirmation that he was still carrying a torch for you, he finds it right there, in the sick feeling in his gut. You’re back in his life for all of twenty seconds and he’s already lost you. He suspected it, during the War, when he went checking to see if you were safe from air raids and found out that you’d moved to Cardiff. Nothing else would’ve taken you out of Camden. But suspecting and knowing are two different tortures, and that thin little ring chokes the life out of him. You were someone else’s. Someone else was taking care of you, spending all his time with you. Someone else saw you dressed in your best, walking down an aisle. Someone else got to kiss you and comfort you and make love to you. Someone else took fine advantage of his own foolish mistake.

——-

_It rains for a week straight. The once thirsty ground saturates and refuses all the excess that pours from the clouds. Tendrils of muddy water sneak into every corner of the trenches, pooling in low spots, forcing everyone to clump even closer together. The men push past feeling sad and soggy and become listless. Start snapping and arguing. Rations are cut again; rumor has it the bread’s not even made of flour anymore, just turnips, dried and ground to grainy powder. It’s hell, being hungry, but it’s miserable eating, too. Then like a lark, one of the men pipes up._

_“Fucking christ, I miss my wife’s cooking.”  
_

_Everyone nearby hums and huffs. Doesn’t matter which man said it or who his wife is. It’s a nice moment, thinking about a home-cooked meal made by the hands of someone who cares. Someone else clears his throat._

_“Know what I miss about my Mary? Her singing. My God, she’d make an angel weep.”  
_

_A low voice mumbles, “bet that’s not all you miss,” and the company has a muffled laugh. Everyone’s seen the picture of Mary and everyone’s professed their love._

_A fourth voice calls out after a moment’s silence. “Oi Cap’n Solomons! Tell us another one of them stories about your girl.”_

_The rain’s heavy enough now that everyone’s squinting beneath the edge of their helmets, so none of them see him flinch. “Haven’t I told ‘em all yet?”_

_“Not likely. Come on then, you said you was gonna tell us about the time the pair of you stole a dog.”  
_

_Alife chuckles to himself, half at the memory itself, half at the lad’s eagerness to hear it. “_ She _stole the dog, to be clear. And it weren’t really stealing, it were more like givin’ him his freedom, yeah? Poor fella’d been tied to a post, every time we walked by. One day we passed and he was limpin’, scrawny, pitiful thing. They had a fence, so I can’t figure why they’d tie him up. Anyway, she got it in her head that the old man what lived there was treating the dog poorly. And he was, more than like, we heard him yellin’ and cursin’ all the time. ‘Alfie,’ she says, ‘you’re better with knots, so you best climb over and set him loose.’ Fuckin hell…”_

_“Well_ did _you?”  
_

_“’Course I did. Think I wanna be on the other end of her bad temper?”  
_

_It’s almost as if he can feel the mood physically lift. He can’t pinpoint what does it, but stories about the pair of you always manage to cheer the men. Never mind the fact they make his heart ache. They bring you to life for a minute or two, and that seems enough to get everyone through, just a little at a time._

_“You oughta ask her to write. Maybe we can get these stories from her side.”  
_

_Alfie drops his head a touch and shakes it. “Ain’t heard from her in nine…nearly ten years? You’ll have to settle for my lousy memory.”_

_“Fuck, Captain, you gonna go find her after all this?”  
_

_“We’ll see,” he says, humoring their fancy. But to himself he mutters. “Not mine to go back to.”_

——-

With your arms still latched around him, he takes a step back into his office so he can close the door. He doesn’t want you to let go, wants to keep his nose buried in the soft curl of your hair for the rest of his days. He wants to go right back to the moment he walked off to training and tell you he fucked it all straight up. But time has made that moment entirely inaccessible to him. Future and forward, that’s all he’s got now. So he pulls away a touch until you loose your grip. “Fuckin’ hell, love, where’ve you been all these years?”

You’ve got tears running heavy down your cheeks and it sucks all the air out of his lungs to see that much sorrow on you. His fingers itch to reach out and dry your face.

“We moved to Cardiff in 1911, I think it was. This is the first I’ve been back, and I swear, I must’ve heard your name on the lips of _everyone_ I passed. Alfie Solomons, King of Camden Town?”

A grandiose claim, one he should refute on account of humility–and she’s the only one he’d considered being humble with. But he can’t stop stumbling over “we.” You moved to Cardiff with your husband and he could retch at the thought of it.

* * *

You weren’t sure you believed it, walking through the streets, but it’s true. Your Al, the King of Camden. You can see it in his face and his shoulders, wide now to carry the weight of whatever awful things you’re sure he’s done. Because they all call it a bakery, but you can smell the alcohol in the air. You see the men who work for him, suspicious body language and averted eyes. And you don’t mind it, not really. Not if he’s honest with you about it. Neither of you were saints growing up. But it’s been so long, you suppose you’re not entitled to know his business.

He has trouble meeting your eyes and it finally crosses your mind that maybe he’s not as keen to see you as you’d hoped. He gestures for you to sit on the small couch in his office and joins you on the other end of it once you’ve settled. The cushion dips with his weight and you find yourself leaning towards him against your express will. He rubs idly at his knee and you have trouble looking away from his hand until he speaks.

“My God, it’s good to see you,” he says more to himself than to you. Your whole heart takes flight. “But what the fuck brings you back to Camden? Missed the grit and grime?”

You shake your head before you can find your voice, but then you smooth your skirts and it comes to you. “Mum’s getting old, and she’s not got anyone to help.”

There’s genuine concern on his face and you brace against another wave of affection for him. “You let me help in anyway I can. Know all the best people, get her a proper doctor if she needs it, hire a maid and all that.”

You duck your head and beam at the floor. “It’s nothing like that, Al. I just want to be here for her.” Your eyes meet when you glance up for a moment and you hold his stare there. “Besides, there’s nothing left in Cardiff for me anymore. Not since Owen passed.”

An expression flits across his face so fast you can’t name it and his hand stops moving against his knee. “Owen. That your…your husband?”

All you can really manage is a nod. Nearly ten years, and it still feels like a foreign word.

“I _am_ sorry for your loss, love.” The way he says it, you feel certain that part of him isn’t sorry. It triggers tears, because part of _you_ isn’t sorry either. You open your mouth to thank him for his condolences or to tell him not to fret, but a harsh sob springs forth instead.

“I was an awful wife, Al.” You can’t bear to look at him, and you can’t seem to stop the tears, either. “I just couldn’t stay in that house, in that city another moment.”

He turns toward you and takes one of your hands to keep you from wringing them. “Hey, hey, what’s all this?” His voice sharpens. “Did he treat you poorly?”

Of course Alfie would fear that. You brush it off immediately and thoroughly. “No, there wasn’t a kinder man in the world, really there wasn’t. I just never could love him all the way.”

“The fuck’d you marry him for, then?”

You manage a snotty laugh through your nose. “What else was there to do? I hadn’t any money, no prospects. He was sweet and handsome enough and he doted on me like a proper suitor ought to. He was a man of means, but he was humble about it. A prize of a husband, really. And I thought surely I would grow to love him, you know? We spent years together, perfectly pleasant. But then the War…”

A shiver runs down your spine because you’re about to tell him. Tell him what’s kept you up at night for years, what’s kept you drowning in guilt and shame. Your voice is thin and shaking when you start. “I prayed for you first, Alfie. You always came first. I had this silly notion…what if prayers really did some good? What if I prayed for Owen, and before I could pray for you, a bullet would hit or a cannon would fire and I’d lose you? But if I’d prayed for you first, it would have made it in time and stopped you dying. I asked God to look out for you first.”

He squeezes his hand tight around yours until you feel smooth rings pressing into your fingers. Somehow his comfort make you feel worse, like your chest is caving in. You’re crying steadily now, having to talk through it.

“He came back in pieces, Al. Hardly alive. That was _my_ doing.”

His hands pull away from yours and then you feel his fingers at your chin, lifting your tear-wrecked face to his own, made hazy through your damp eyelashes. “That was not your fucking doing. Do you hear me?”

You can’t agree with him, you’ll likely never agree with him on that. “I took care of him those last months, trying to atone, maybe. And do you know what he told me?” Alfie tries to smooth your face clear of tears, but his touch only serves to loose more of them.

“He told me to carry on. Said ‘go find that Solomons fellow you’re always talking about.’ My God, Alfie, he _knew_. He knew and he didn’t begrudge me and I was _awful_. And now he’s dead and I’m here and–”

“What did he know?”

You freeze, trying to trace his question back through your weeping rant, and swallow hard. His face looks so soft, it brings you right back to being young and absolutely mad about him. It gives you just enough courage.

“That I loved you, Al.”

* * *

The office door flies open and Ollie takes a startled look at the weeping woman on the couch before addressing his boss.

“Shelby, sir.”

This has gotta be a fucking joke. You’ve just confessed your love to him, and rather than getting to pull you into his arms and blissfully, _finally_ kiss you, he has to go deal with Tommy fucking Shelby. He looks at you, most stunning thing he’s ever seen, tears and puffy eyes included. And he hopes his expression is one of apology and regret. But this might actually be for the best. He shouldn’t be kissing you in his office. ‘Cause that’s what’ll happen, before even a single word comes out. And if he starts kissing you, he’ll start running his hands through your hair and digging fingertips into the soft sides of your hips. And that just won’t do. Not for you, not in his office.

“Ollie, take her to the house?” Then he turns to you. “If that’s alright, I mean. This cunt I have to deal with…it’s fine, right, it’ll be fine. But I’d rather–”

“That’ll be fine,” you say, echoing his words with a soft little smile because you already understand. _Christ_ , he does love you. It’s such an easy feeling that he almost pecks you on the lips on his way out of the room. But he tempers himself and settles for squeezing your shoulder.

“Right then, Ollie. See her safe.”

——-

It’s a modest flat, all things considered. Absolutely filled with tchotchkes of all make and manner, but cozy. You understand the impulse, having been poor. With a little money, you spent conservatively. With a _lot_ of money, you became a magpie. You don’t know what half the things are meant to mean, but they all feel like Al in one way or another. You’re running curious fingertips across the spines of his literary collection when the front door opens and a mastiff comes padding in ahead of a mumbling voice. _“Pick up the pace, wouldya?”_

You’ve been caught in the lurching sensation of a free-fall for the last hour, having told the love of your life that you’ve carried a torch for nearly twenty years and having received precisely no response. It’s a low, queasy feeling, fanned into full panic at the sound of his voice. He’s had time to consider your confession. Time to best figure out how to let you down gently. You wonder briefly if he’s forgotten he sent you here, because he seems oblivious to your presence as he lets his dog off its lead.

He props his cane against the wall. Sets his hat on a peg. Shrugs his black woolen coat from his shoulders. Empties his pockets into a small tin bowl sat on a table by the door. In any other circumstances, this routine domesticity might calm and comfort you. Today, it keeps you hanging by nerve endings. You watch and try to keep your heart in your chest as he shoves his sleeves up to his elbows.

And then he looks up. Locks eyes with you. And in a handful of quick, thudding steps, he’s _here_. Arms wrapped around you, hands in your hair, shoulders hunching over the whole of you. And his mouth…you could faint. You may have died. He’s kissing you, deep and thirsty, sucking all the air from your lungs, and you dissolve. Not made of flesh or blood anymore, just beams of light bringing you back to life. Pure fucking transcendence. The world is new and time is marked: Before the Kiss, After the Kiss. His lips have always looked like sin, but they move divinely, tugging plump and lush as they pour relief into you. Thank God he’s holding you up because your knees buckle when he growls, into your mouth, “I love you. Loved you then, loved you every fucking moment of my life.”

Everything stops still. It’s validation, it’s euphoria, and it’s a gut-wrenching tragedy that it took until now. Your dear Alfie, hurting just like you, all this time. You manage to pull away for a gasping breath and press your forehead to his. “Oh God, Al, do you mean it? Am I dreaming?”

His jaw’s quivering where you hold it in your own nervous hands. “It’s real, love. You’re real and in my arms and I ain’t ever letting you go again.”

And then it’s explanations, confessions, admissions after admission between hungry kisses.

“I used to have dreams that it all went differently. The day you left—“

“I know, I fuckin know—“

“That you asked me to be your sweetheart, and you promised to return to me. That you kissed me and spun me ‘round and said you’d come back and we’d never be parted again. Then I’d wake up and cry my eyes out—“

“I dreamt about you in the fucking trenches, you haunted me. Dreamt of your hands on my face, just like they are now, while you told me you’d wait for me. We were such fucking fools—“

“We were scared, they were big feelings—“

“I should’ve told you then. Should’ve been taking care of you this whole time—“

“Take care of me now.”

You can feel his whole body shiver at the implications of that command and it’s enough to temper him, even though he keeps hold your face. “I’m a bad man, yeah? Break the law, beat people, kill if it comes to it.”

You run the pad of your thumb across his lower lip, damp and red from kissing you. How many hours did you spend staring at his mouth, picking at your fingers for want of reaching out and feeling its softness?

“And you’re still soft and lovely, I’ll fucking stain you with these hands, yeah?”

It’s not what you’re supposed to linger on, but you can’t help it. “You think I’m lovely?”

A puff of air from his nose hits your hand where it lingers by his mouth. “Fuck, woman, I’m tryna warn you offa me–”

“I don’t care. Alfie Solomons, I have–christ, I have _ached_ to have you just like this for as long as I can remember. I know what it feels like to live without you, and I can’t do that anymore. I _won’t_.”

“Thank fuck” is muffled somewhere in his efforts to fuse his mouth to yours and lift you against him. You’re vaguely aware that he’s moving, walking with you in his arms, but he kisses like a starving man. Makes it hard to pay attention to anything else. It’s when he sets you on your feet at the edge of a bed that you come rushing back to yourself.

He tucks his nose under your ear and the warmth of it sends an odd shiver through you. You hold his shoulders for support. “Al.” Not a question; a confirmation.

“Missed the sound of you sayin’ my name.” He brushes the backs of his fingers against your neck and pushes your hair behind your shoulder. It makes you dizzy.

“It’s different this time, yeah?”

He hums in agreement. “I’ve waited so long…I can wait longer for you, if–what I mean is, _fuck_ , pet, I’d be happy to just hold onto you like this for the next few days.”

All your insides somersault in synchronization. Because you can feel his hard-on prodding against your leg, and through gritted teeth, he’s giving you an out. He’s a fucking gentleman, he’s still your sweet Al, and you could cry if it didn’t have you giggling. It gives you a little courage, even though you’re starting to feel like a shy kid with a crush again. You reach for the top button of his shirt and chew your lip in anticipation.

“No waiting.” His whole posture changes–relieved but still so tense with arousal, he nearly bites a hole in his cheek. “But…slow? I’m…my god, I’m nervous, Al.”

He laughs shaky with you, pets your arms where they’re propped on his chest and nods. “We’ve got all the time in the world, yeah?”

So it starts with a button, slipped through its hole to expose sparse curling hair. One button becomes two, and then three, until you watch his whole chest heave up and down, warm beneath your hands. You tug the shirttails from his trousers and smooth your palms up until they can curve around his shoulders and push the fabric down his back. Gone is the slender boy you grew up with, all skinny arms and bony shoulders. He’s grown up properly, eaten well, worked hard, and now he’s thick and broad and hot to the touch. You’re sure you’re making an awestruck face, because your Al’s a man now, and he’s somehow more gorgeous than he was before. So to hide your expression, you press an eager kiss right over his heart. His chest swells beneath your lips and you wrap your arms around an equally sturdy back, and it’s decided: you’re going to wring him dry.

* * *

Instead of turning you, he reaches around to slide the zipper of your dress down your back. It puts your nose right into the front of his shoulder. With both hands, he peels the fabric away from your skin like opening up wings and you shiver. It’s more than just flesh he’s exposing—nearly feels like your rib cage is open and your heart’s there for the taking.

You don’t realize you’ve whispered his name until he’s pulling back to look at you. “Alright?” he asks, and you nod so fast that you dizzy yourself because you’re _better_ than alright. So he kisses your temple and brings his hands over the front of your shoulders, still clasping the back of your dress, so that it falls and gathers at your hips. You hear a clipped little intake of air and blush from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes.

His hands raise to your collarbones, just light touches with his fingertips, reverent and wide-eyed. You make no effort to hide your shivering as you push your dress past your hips to puddle at your feet. That’s when his hands start roaming, drawing scorching lines down your sides and up your back. You watch his face through heavy eyelids, cataloguing every time his nose flares and his mouth twitches when his fingers smooth over a swell of soft skin or his eyes catch the rising of goosebumps. When his knuckles glance against your nipple through your silken slip, both of you catch a moan mid-throat. You step closer to him until your chests meet and you curse the slow pace you’ve set because you’re on fire like this. The faint brush of fingertips, the shy glances–age has done nothing to quell your nerves. Your sweet Al is touching you like it’s some great privilege for him. And he kisses you as he pets. Soft, giddy pecks and slower, dragging lips and every so often, his teeth nipping at your tongue. He palms your ass with one hand, pulls you flush against him, and you break away from his mouth with a gasp because his cock is hard and that means he _wants_ you and that means you might somehow _disappoint_ him.

“I’m scared, Al.”

You didn’t know it until you’d said it, but it was true–you were frightened. Frightened that you’d built this moment up too much, that you’d somehow idealized all of it…frightened that things would turn awkward…but above all else, frightened that he’d lose interest in you after tying up this loose end.

He moves both hands to your face, lifts it to look at him, and kisses the very tip of your nose. “I’m right here, love. You’re safe with me.”

You struggle to look him in the eyes. “What if it’s not…what if I’m not…” you shake your head.

“Look, love…you are my wildest fucking dream, yeah? In the flesh. _Better_ , in the flesh, than ever in my dreams.” He scoops you up into his arms, even though the bed’s only a step away, and rests you against the pillows. He shoves his trousers off as you settle in. Then he sits beside you, lifts your hand to his lips, and smiles. “Look like you fucking belonged here all along.”

The soft sincerity in his eyes is enough to calm your fears for the moment and you sit up at that suggestion. “Shouldn’t have let you leave,” you whisper against his cheek with a kiss. “Shouldn’t have taken Frank to that ball, either.”

He chuckles and pulls you in for a proper kiss. “I was a prick about it, you were right to put me in my place. Just made me so fucking angry, watching him make you laugh. Watching him get a kiss from you.”

That little admission of jealously, and the kisses turn sultry, have you curving a hand around his neck to pull him closer until you’re all but in his lap. Between them you whisper, “no more kisses for anyone else, hm? Just my Al?”

He devours your mouth at that idea, then pulls back just enough to breathe his next confession between your lips. “Always wanted to be your first.”

“My first kiss?” It’s something you’d wished for, too.

His lips brush against yours, but he doesn’t seal them. “Your first fuck. Not a fuck, though, something sweeter. Like this, maybe. Just wanted to do proper by you,” he says, smoothing your hair behind your shoulder. “Wanted to have that first together.”

You don’t say anything in response, and that worries him. But then you crawl the rest of the way into his lap and shimmy your slip up over your head. You drag your fingers through his hair and place your mouth just below his ear. “But my darling Al, you _were_ my first. In the best possible way.”

He makes a curious sound, wanting clarification but not able to ask for it because you’ve sucked his earlobe into your mouth and you’re stark naked in his arms.

“First orgasm I ever had,” you whisper right into his ear. You feel him growl, more than you hear it. “I was thinking of you. I know they say you’re not supposed to touch yourself like that. But it feels too good to really be evil, don’t you think?”

You’re not sure where the sudden confidence has come from, but the brazen language has him grunting and groaning, and you wouldn’t stop those sounds for all the world. His arms come up around your back and he lays you flat.

“What did you think of?” he asks, almost shyly.

You smooth your palm over his shoulder. “Your hands, mostly. I’d think of your hands touching me, any part of me, and shivers would bloom everywhere.” You can hear him swallow, and then his fingers start tracing a slow path down your stomach, past your navel, into the soft thatch of hair between your thighs. One thick finger slips between your folds and you whine. “Your lips, too. God, Al, you’ve got the loveliest mouth. I imagined you testing every inch of me, just to see which spots liked your kisses the best.” His mouth tucks into the crook where you neck and shoulder meet and laves at your flushed skin.

“And you thought of that, of me? Until you came?”

You nod frantically, suddenly a little shy about the admission. But it only spurs him on and he slides two fingers into you, twisting and stroking and crooking them like he’s been doing it all his life. You try not to think about the idea that he’s had practice.

“What did it feel like?” he asks, between nips to your neck.

You shiver at the recollection, which you’ve kept fresh, invoking it over the years when you needed to pretend that things had gone differently. “Like…like _flying_. And maybe a little bit like dying. Breathless and warm, everywhere. You smiling soft, and telling me you love me. You lingered on the backs of my eyelids like that for a moment. And then…”

It hurts to finish the thought–the remembered realization that he wasn’t there beside you, to kiss and cradle you back to your senses. Just a cold and empty bed.

“Then?”

“And then you were gone,” you say, waiting until he lifts his face to look at you. His lips are red and shining, his eyebrows drawn together in distress. “Never felt so lonesome in my whole life.”

He meets your mouth with a searing kiss, tight and desperate. “Promise, you never have to feel lonesome like that again, yeah?” He slips his fingers out of you so he can guide his cock and your heart flutters when you feel the head of it press in.

His steady push drives the breath out of you both and he swears “ _fuck_ ” through gritted teeth. There are so many ways of being together that you hope and pray to experience, but this–having him nestled inside of you like this–draws your heart up into your throat. It’s why you feel choked when you say his name.

He holds still, braced above you on one arm as he tries to collect himself. “So fucking perfect,” comes out as stilted breaths, his forehead pressed to yours. “Should’ve always been you.”

You hold his head in both hands, clench your cunt around him, and he whimpers. “We’ll make up for it,” you assure him. He nods and starts thrusting: long, dragging strokes out so that you can feel every inch of friction, and deep, full strokes in that spark fire through all your nerve endings. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt, and you’re momentarily convinced that out of the entire universe, this one man was made for you from the start–that you’d met all those years ago because he was the path and the way to total fucking ecstasy. But the truth was far sweeter, and you knew it when he whispered, “want you to feel so fucking good, love.” He wasn’t made for you, nor you for him. You’d picked each other, and wanted, above all else, to bring each other happiness. And on your end, at least, happiness was never sweeter than when caused by your Al.

You cling to his shoulders as he picks up his pace, and you give up trying to muffle your cries. It’s too good, he feels too fucking good to repress anything, so you kiss him. Sloppy and unrestrained, just the distilled need to have your mouth on his, your breath twisted up together. He pulls one of your legs high around his back and you’re lost. The angle’s divine, his cock is divine, his heated breath and the smell of his sweat are all so sacred to you that the dying feeling starts flickering.

“M’close,” you mumble against his shoulder.

He puts a hand beneath your head and directs you to look at him. “Been waiting years to watch you come apart. Let me see, love. Let me see you.”

Tension, tightly strung tension from your eyebrows down to your arching feet, curling around every part of him. Out of your straining throat comes your gratitude, your confession, your release of guilt, your greatest happiness: “I love you,” breathed against his temple, like maybe the feeling will live in that hard head of his and keep him company, always. As soon as you’ve got it out, the whole world untangles. Every muscle turns to liquid, every bone light as a feather, and in the whispering ache of your cunt, you feel his own warm release. Through the wooly fog of your afterglow, you hear his choked relief and almost immediate light laughter. Your hands are still clung to his neck, fingernails raking through his shaggy hair, and an airy laugh escapes you, too. You stare at each other, _really_ stare at each other with shining eyes. In wonder, perhaps, or complete adoration. He looks bright, almost young, and for a moment, you could nearly believe it was fifteen years earlier.

He smooths the hair from your sweaty forehead and kisses you there. “Will you stay with me?”

You laugh, high and bright because you’re giddy. Absolutely drunk on him. “I’m a puddle, Al. I’m not going anywhere.”

The back of his hand runs against your cheek, so softly, so affectionately that your heart blooms all over again. “For good, love. Will you stay with me for good?”

You know the answer already, but you let the moment linger, just to imprint the dazzle of it. You hold his hand in place, turn your head so that you can kiss the backs of his knuckles, and nod. “Spent too many days without you as it is.”

He falls asleep before you do, mouth soft as he snores gently, and you can’t look away. But for the first time, you don’t have to look away. You can openly adore and delight in him. And when he wakes in the middle of the night from another dream about you, for the first time, it doesn’t break his heart. Because your hand is pressed right above it, holding it safe.


End file.
